


...nothing continued to happen

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Gentleness, M/M, No Plot, Some days are just like that, Towel Day 2018, literally nothing happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: Sometimes silence is agreeable.“For a moment, nothing happened. Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.”― Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy





	...nothing continued to happen

There was a time, a point in history before they were _they,_ when both had simply existed, alone and not truly living, that stillness had been a detriment. _Nothing_ the greatest enemy. When inactivity would drive Sherlock to mind altering, heart stopping, chemical stimulation. And too much quiet would force John to obsessively disassemble and reassemble his service weapon as he attempted to not consider the implications.

Stumbling along, barely managing to survive on their own, they'd managed to find one another in the void. They'd filled in each other’s empty places, and cobbled together a life, a space together where they could both breathe. 

Those days, early days, weren't perfect. But they were exciting and heady, and the quiet times were few and easily remedied. They built a life on the chase, adrenaline propelling them.

But life wasn't meant to be a constant tear through city streets, air rushing and blood coursing. Life ebbed and flowed. There seemed to be no remedy for the universe imposed quiet of loneliness and solitude.

In those terrible years, Sherlock fought the wars on his own, and never succeeded in convincing himself that _alone_ truly was the best course. John simply atrophied, allowing the stillness to slowly cripple him once more. In those years, the quiet had nearly killed them both.

Sherlock considered the past, those years of extremes, as he stretched, sleep warm and at peace. The grey light of early dawn filtered in through the curtains. He closed his eyes and just breathed.

It wasn't that he didn't need near constant stimulation. He craved it, his mind constantly churning, burning him from inside. He faced no criminal as potentially fatal as boredom. 

And he knew the same for John. John was good at play acting at calm in the quiet times, but Sherlock knew, he _knew._ He’d observed often enough, the anxiety that accompanied inactivity, the way darkness seemed to creep in. John’s black moods didn't often drive him to destruction as Sherlock’s did, but that didn't make them any less distressing.

But now, _now._ After the years of running and chasing and fighting. After all the hurting each other, saving each other, and after finally settling in. It was good. They no longer shied from rest. The quiet no longer instilled fear. Stillness could be agreeable.

There were times, following weeks of hard cases, seeing the absolute worst of humanity, after not enough sleep, too many experiments, a few difficult surgery shifts, and the world simply being unbearable, they welcomed a few hours, a day or even two, of _nothing._

Case files and experiment notes left abandoned in precarious piles. A blog entry half finished. The day’s papers and post tossed to the side. All in exchange for tea and toast with jam, shared in companionable silence. Dusty, long forgotten tomes pulled down from shelves. Quiet strolls in the park, with whispered observations and terrible street vendor coffee. A great many naps curled up on the sitting room couch. Original violin compositions played tentatively by the window. Peaceful dinner in, shoulder to shoulder, chopping, stirring, tasting, washing up. _Together._

The _nothing_ was never just _nothing_ if they faced it together. Sherlock had a room in his Mind Palace dedicated solely to the accumulation of these all too brief, beautiful, interludes of _nothing._

Sentiment.

Sherlock sighed, content and comfortable. He remained still, watching the sunlight go golden. Waiting. He could hear two mugs being set on the kitchen worktop. The electric buzz and pop of the toaster. The rattle of bottles and jars when the refrigerator door was pulled open. John humming softly something Sherlock had composed.

With a yawn, he pushed himself up out of bed and wrapped his robe secure. He left his mobile on the bedside table. There wasn't a single thing he could think of, in that moment, worth disrupting _nothing_ with John.


End file.
